


Claiming the Martyr

by LadyMaigrey



Series: Reclaiming the Martyr [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Lingchi, Psychological Torture, Torture, Whump, sounds worse than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-12-28 07:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21132812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMaigrey/pseuds/LadyMaigrey
Summary: Could something that was so obvious and predictable be even called a trap?An ‘expected consequence’ was a better description. A consequence they all acknowledged, did what they could to prepare for, while recognising that, short of going into permanent hiding, nothing they did would ever be good enough.And it wasn’t.**Can be read as standalone**





	1. The Lion’s Den

**Author's Note:**

> In a way, this is a homage to the comic book genre. It has a recap of "events so far", over-the-top dialogue and an outlandish scenario. Why did it turn out like that? Fucked if I know. It just wanted to, I guess. This thing got rewritten three times and it just refuses to tone down the melodrama (although it does get balanced out by a fair amount of blood). I am inflicting it on you as is, without apologies. :)
> 
> A word of caution: "Dex" sort-of features in this, but only in the capacity that I needed a henchman with recognisable skills. He is not the Benjamin Poindexter from the TV series.
> 
> Also, a reminder: this is set after DD season 2 (minus the Defenders) and Punisher Season 1.

Swish of wet tires against the road, hurried click and drag of shoes; voice-waves ricocheting into his ears from soaked pavement and brick walls, reverberating through windows, bouncing off dinner tables and tv screens. The warbling of the siren – far away, out of his domain, crisis well in hand. He padded along the roofs, vaulted the in-between chasms, negotiated the tightropes of ledges – the last for the sheer delight of feeling the precise response of his muscles to the demand for delicate balance.

Tonight, Matt allowed himself the luxury of joy, of exhilaration in knowing that he could respond to a cry for help, should there be one. Adrenaline was, once again, a tool - not a source of ice chips in his bloodstream. His body was toned and tuned and lithe, and under his control - free of the medication that subtly cloyed his senses. He wasn’t as strong as he once was, and he wasn’t pain-free – he never would be on either count – but he adjusted. He had learned to substitute the unswerving punches with trickery and subterfuge, enabled by his phenomenal senses. He feigned and danced and drew the opponents to him, feeling for the split second of their commitment to the attack, before using their own weight and momentum against them to inflict his damage. He now outlasted the foe, not just in his ability to cope with pain and punishment, but in his speed and athletic endurance: they eventually got too tired, too frustrated, too dispirited of punching, stabbing and clubbing at the thin air where Daredevil stood but half-a-breath ago. He then brought them down, where they stayed until the cops came to collect these easy pickings.  
  
He was always aware of the twisted imperfect muscles in his back and shoulders. They cramped and sang to him along his nerves in jagged tones after every workout, every fight, even after a long day at court. Cold, rainy days were the worst, but the pain was manageable – meditation compartmentalised it, simple Advil and Voltaren usually chased off the worst of it, and Karen’s strong fingers kneaded the rest of the sharpness out, converting it into a dull muttering, lulled by the spreading warmth.

He accomplished all of this with help. Help and love – both of which were limitless in comparison to what he deserved. The constant presence of that love at his back - a feeling that used to seem as foreign and incapacitating as a straight-jacket made of the softest down wool – was now the foundation upon which he dared to rest when the lawless turmoil of Hell’s Kitchen exhausted him. He leaned on it when the weighted blanket of depression settled down over his senses, inverting them to focus on the infernal gates of his memories; when his mind whispered to him that survival at the cost of self-betrayal and sacrilege was worthless; when he denied himself the forgiveness that God granted St. Peter. 

He could swear that, at those times, Karen and Foggy developed sensory perceptions to rival his own: no matter how he hid his mood – they knew. Instead of withdrawing, they closed in around him. They didn’t question him. They didn’t pity him. They didn’t tiptoe around him. They were simply _there_, with the interminable message that he was loved and he was not alone.

During those days, he could not compute why they chose to forgive him, to remain by his side, to put themselves in constant danger just by associating with him. Why a man, whom Daredevil had caught and nearly got incarcerated for life, promised to be there with his guns and Death’s Head emblem blazing, should the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen ever need him. In the dark, his guilt shot through his nightmares, but it was the one topic which bore no discussion: both Foggy and Karen made it clear that these choices were theirs to make, even if he could not comprehend them. As far as Castle was concerned – Matt attempted to raise it during one of their sparing sessions. He may not have been able to see the look of exasperation on Castle’s face, but he certainly felt it in the next blow aimed at his liver, and in the grumbled, “Save the guilt trip, choir boy. It ain’t Ash Wednesday”. The blasphemy made Matt’s heart lighter and his punches - harder.

Most of the time, though, he was just grateful for the lifeline his friends threw him and, when he pushed it away, knotted it around him, despite his protestations. 

When it came to Karen, his gratitude was lost in his adoration for the woman whose love and trust and arms remained open to him, despite the blood on his body and the violence in his soul.

And now - he was lost in his musings. Still, there was no intimation of danger – to himself or anyone else, so he turned the trajectory of his jaunt across the rooftops towards home.

When his burner phone went off, his assumption that it was Karen was a simple reflection of his thoughts, though Karen rarely called him when he was out keeping his vigil.

His voice was gentle and light.

“What’s up?”

The voice on the other end was quiet and deeply troubled, with an undertone of confusion and shame.

“It’s Micro. There’s no easy way to put this: he is back and we missed it. All the video feeds got cut at your place. Secondary audio links still function and I can tell there are at least two, maybe three, others with him… and Karen.”

And, just like that, the terror – the demise of which Matt was so jubilantly celebrating just a minute ago – returned, and focused its yellow nauseating gaze on the thought of Karen in Fisk’s hands.

Micro’s voice hurried in his ears, “She is fine, from what I can tell, but they sent someone to bring you in. They know where you are. You gotta move. Right now.”

His body clearly wished to remain doubled over in its frozen state.

“Cops are our best bet. FBI too. I’ll feed them enough data to get them runnin’, but you gotta leave and stay down.”

There were two things he knew with absolute certainty: cops could not be trusted when it came to Fisk and, even if they could be, Fisk would’ve prepared for it. He went for Karen, which was the equivalent of having his hands around Matt’s own throat. The cops were not going to help here.

“No – no cops, no FBI,” he croaked, “He… he will kill her before he surrenders.”

Micro’s voice pulsed with guilt and helplessness.

“Frank has turned back already. Last night, actually. There were some… indicators. Nothing specific – nothing that was even unusual - models matching at five to ten percent, at most. He didn’t like the timing though, what with Russo resurfacing in Dallas, out of all places. The man has a sixth fuckin’ sense, or something.”

A small spark of hope – Matt couldn’t even bring himself to concern with the deaths that the Punisher would rain.

“How far away is he?”

A pause that snuffed out the spark …

“Too far. Three-four hours.” Micro then returned to his mantra, “Get outta there.”

Another – unknown - voice echoed to him out of the canyon of the alley below.

“Mr Murdock. I know you can hear me. You have thirty seconds to come down to street level. It is in Ms Page’s best interest that you do.”

The sword of Damocles plummeted down on all the fantasies they built.

“It’s too late, Micro. Thank you for trying.” He hung up the call.

* * *

“Frank?”

“Yeah.”

“Step on it. You were right.”

The strange buzz from the smartwatch on his wrist was so unfamiliar that, without Lieberman’s barely-concealed panic, he probably wouldn’t have immediately identified it. As it was, there was no questioning what type of shit hit the fan, and who it reached.

“_Fuck! _Did he grab Red again?”

Lieberman’s voice was quiet and apologetic.

“He’ll have them both by now.”

The heel of his hand connected with the steering wheel. He then leant over to the passenger side, rummaging inside the glovebox.

“Frank, he doesn’t want the cops…_”_

A bitter smirk twisted Castle’s mouth.

Micro kept supplying the details out of the Jeep’s speakers, while he twisted a wireless comms unit into place at his ear.

“Patch through any feed ya got, and find me every fuckin’ shortcut. On or off road.”

His foot shoved the gas pedal down.

* * *

Four heartbeats inside his home. Two he knew well. One was so intertwined in his mind with his own that, sometimes, he was sure he heard it in his blood, not in his ears. The other – the very antithesis: for months, the memory of it paralysed his muscles, burned his scarred skin and choked the breath out of him. Hearing it now, so close to Karen, surrounded by the smell of gun oil and powder residue … he didn’t realise he was hyperventilating until he heard a chuckle from the asshole who served as Fisk’s messenger-boy. That helped. The igniting Devil’s rage headed off his descent into panic. It didn’t quite help to achieve the composed calm he was trained to seek, but he did manage to control the trembling of his hand enough to grasp the door’s handle and walk into the lion’s den that they turned his home into. The messenger slipped in behind him.

Karen’s heartbeat skipped and then hammered.

“Dammit Matt, you shouldn’t have…” he read despair behind her anger.

"You must realise that he didn’t have a lot of choice.” The owner of the hated heartbeat and the orator’s voice calmly declared from next to the window. “I wonder, Ms Page, whether you ever fully appreciated the power you have over this man’s fate? Do you comprehend the responsibility that places on you? Very few do. Fewer are able to bear it. Almost none can use it with the dignity it calls for. I have faith that you, Ms Page, will be one of those singular individuals.”

He paused into silence.

“Mr Murdock, I am sure you can sense the gun pointed at Ms Page’s head. The man holding it is, in a way, as gifted as you are, though, perhaps, in a more limited sense: he does not miss a shot. Certainly never in such close quarters. He will not hesitate to demonstrate this, should you choose to be uncooperative, or if there is an unwanted interruption by the police, Mr Nelson, Frank Castle or anyone else who you may have drawn into your sphere of unfortunate influence. Take a moment to think about it and when you’ve arrived at the expected conclusion, take off your armor.”

Matt wished he could find any chink in Fisk’s chain of logic, but there was nothing, and it left him with the dreaded sense of helplessness numbing his thoughts and senses. What was worse – even worse than Fisk’s knowledge of Matt’s continued connection to Castle – was the unsurprising ease with which the trap was set. Could something that was so obvious and predictable be even called a trap? An ‘expected consequence’ was a better description. A consequence they all acknowledged, did what they could to prepare for, while recognising that, short of going into permanent hiding, nothing they did would ever be good enough. And it wasn’t. The borrowed time Matt was living on since Fisk kidnapped, tortured and nearly killed him two years ago - was up. He could now only try to ensure that the explosion did not take Karen or Foggy, and the only way he could make that happen was – as Fisk said – cooperate. And buy as much time as possible on the off-chance that Castle would make it back.

Matt took his helmet and cowl off, slowly shrugged off his red suit and stood in the black knit t-shirt and pants that he wore underneath. He always insisted that black was just practical, easy to wash, and Karen had laughed at that, sure that he was hiding a nostalgia for his homemade ninja outfits. She was wrong: it wasn’t his nostalgia that made him reluctant to alter, but hers, and the heat that flushed her when she saw his black-clad form.

“Let us all be clear about this – lay our cards on the table, so to speak, even if I may be holding most of them. You, Mr Murdock, are here today for one reason only: to bleed and to die - as you were meant to do the last time we met. I do not know how stupendous were the odds that you beat in order to survive, but I assure you that you will not do it twice. It is Ms Page’s fate that is uncertain at this point, and will depend entirely on her decisions and your cooperation. I do hope – and I say it with all sincerity – _hope – _that she will come through this unscathed. It may be difficult to believe, but I have learned to appreciate the strength and character of a woman of conviction and passion. Perhaps it is due to the love I, myself, feel for such a woman. I have no wish to harm Ms Page. However, do not mistake it for an assurance that I won’t.”

Matt felt Karen’s anger blaze; was sure she was prepared to either spit words or venom into Fisk’s face, but was interrupted by the hand of the sharpshooter, bearing something metal and clinking, holding it out in front of her, shocking her into silence. A hand also landed on his shoulder, and he was pushed towards the wall near the roof-bound staircase: two brackets remained screwed into the brick there, where the fire hose used to be years ago.

Fisk’s voice again, “Cuff him to the wall, Ms Page.”

Now Matt understood, and some of the panic drained out of him, leaving him winded, but clear-headed. The choking sensation of helplessness faded. The fear still remained, and his mind churned and stumbled over the memories, but that he was used to; he let it all sit in the back of his consciousness – acknowledging, but not letting it distract him from his purpose. There was still nothing he could realistically do that would prevent his death tonight, but he could make sure that Karen got through this in one piece.

That – and he could pray.


	2. By Thy Hand

As panic was leaving Matt, it was invading Karen with its cold fingers. She kept her head up and looked straight into the blank handsome face of the man who was holding a silenced semi-automatic in one gloved hand and two pairs of handcuffs in the other, but her arms betrayed her, folding themselves across her chest, cupping her elbows.

“No. You will not have me involved in... I won’t _help._”

Fisk’s voice returned, uncharacteristically quiet, as if he was confiding a piece of information to a trusted associate, “You will, Ms Page. As I already intimated, you hold Mr Murdock’s fate in your hands. One possible fate you may bestow on him is a bullet in his gut right now. It may take him hours to die, in agony. After which your friend Franklin Nelson will be brought here to take Mr Murdock’s place. You will share their fate too, but I understand that this may not feature in your considerations at this moment.”

Bile and air collided in her throat and, for a moment, Karen wondered whether she was going to throw up or pass out, but her chest could only spasm ineffectively. She wanted to scream, but that, too, was denied her. Her body was petrified with Fisk behind her, bent close, almost whispering his threats in her ear. The man with the gun shifted in front of her and, while she wasn’t sure that he was about to point the weapon towards Matt, her paralysis broke enough for her to jerk a hand towards the handcuffs he was holding. He released them into her palm, and she turned towards Matt, who stood against the wall, looking incongruously calm, almost serene. She took two steps, and then she was forced to stop again, because, suddenly, she couldn’t see.

“Karen, I got you.” His hands were clasping her shoulders, his chest - a solid wall for her to brace against. With her eyes closed, she had an overwhelming urge to just remain in his world; to sink into the touch and smell and sound of his secure living warmth.

“It will be OK. Just do as he says. Please.”

She opened her eyes to his look of calm assurance, “Matt, I can’t. I…”

“Yes, you can. You have to. Just survive; you have to just survive. You and Foggy. That’s all that matters right now.”

“Fuck, Matt!” Anger felt good. Grounding. “Will you quit being such a goddamn martyr!”

His lips quirked in a smile, “I am not. If anything, I am being supremely selfish here.”

He put his hands on either side of her face, running his thumbs along the corners of her eyes, down her cheekbones, tracing her lips, seeing her every contour. 

“I would’ve never made it even this far without you. I am certainly not going to accept any version of a future without you – either you or Foggy. Ensuring you make it out of here tonight is just another form of self-preservation for me.”

His fingers teased a lock of her hair, before tucking it gently behind her ear.

“Besides, whatever he may demand for you to do to me… you know he would do it anyway, and… don’t you think I’d rather have it happen at your hands? It wouldn’t … matter then. So, you see - selfish.”

Matt smiled again, leaned forward and brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth before, briefly, closing around her bottom lip. He tugged her with him as he stepped back to the wall, and then hooked one of the bracelets hanging from her fingers, locking it around his own wrist.

Karen ground her teeth on the resurgent outrage within her and fumbled the second cuff through the eye in the bracket. She forced herself to repeat the motions with his other hand, and he was now chained in a space barely more than three feet apart. The brackets were at the height of his hips, which allowed his arms to hang almost naturally by his sides, and his expression was once again – relaxed; his breathing – deep and even.

Something heavy slid on the floor a couple of feet from Karen, and she stared at it while the loathsome voice spoke again, “I admire courage wherever I see it, and while you will need a vast amount of it tonight, I believe you will rise to the challenge. There are rules you will abide by, Ms Page, as breaking them will result in consequences that I trust will be untenable – to both of you. If you disobey me; if you attempt to harm me or any of my men, or if you use this knife in any way other than instructed - trust my promise – I will flay your Daredevil. Again. I will make sure he remains alive long enough to fully appreciate what will be done to you - and to Mr Nelson. Do you understand me?”

What Karen finally understood, with all the horror and trepidation her soul could muster, was that Matt had already guessed what was coming, accepted it, and tried to prepare her to cope - but there was no sane way to cope with what Fisk was demanding of her. She locked her eyes with Fisk, expecting to see the twist of glee or mad depravity, but there was only the clarity of arrogance and the earnestness of imperial entitlement.

“Do you understand, Ms Page?” he repeated.

He left her nothing but words to strike at him with.

“I understand just fine, you pathetic revenge-driven ogre. How many wet dreams did it take you to come up with this? You had to resort to … to goons and kidnapping and threats so you could take your hate out on the one man who stood up to you and made you pay for your crimes. One man! And you don’t even have the guts to call him out on even terms - because you know you would land back on your ass in jail if you did, no matter how many cops and politicians you corrupted this time.”

She saw Fisk’s jaw tighten for a second - his fingers twitch, curling towards his palms - and held her breath, hopeful and terrified. Then the moment passed.

“You may be correct about my degree of… conviction in wanting this, but you severely underestimate your own importance in our combined history. Now, pick up that knife, Ms Page. As you have so astutely realised, you _will_ be my instrument tonight.”

The energy of the brief battle fled, and despair resettled its choking weight on her. She glanced at Matt - who had his head cocked, listening intently, his jaw tight - and picked up the dully-gleaming instrument from the floor.

Fisk’s fingers continued to twitch and twist, but his eyes stared into hers.

“You will use the blade edge only, Ms Page. And you will avoid all major blood vessels. I trust you have the knowledge of basic human anatomy. If not, Mr Murdock can enlighten you. He must be quite … well-versed in it.”

He paused, studying her, incapacitating her.

“You will cut him and bleed him, Ms Page. You will be relentless.”

His voice turned concerned, “I should’ve inquired whether the sight of considerable amounts of blood … affects you, Ms Page. But… I have full faith in your abilities to rise above any … limitations you may have, however natural.”

“You are insane!” she exhaled, and there did not seem to be enough air to refill her lungs.

Fisk continued to stare her down.

“Dex, would you please put a bullet into Mr Murdock’s knee, as a prelude, then call for Mr Nelson to be picked up and brought here.”

The sharpshooter shifted and galvanised Karen. She took a step back, standing close in front of Matt, shielding him.

“No!”

“He will shoot right through you, Ms Page.”

“Karen, don’t resist!” She swore she could feel the strength of Matt’s will thrumming through his body, not just his voice. “Look at me!”

She didn’t want to look at him or listen.

“We get time. That’s all I want right now. More time… with you. You can give that to me … please.”

There was no way she could. No way. Hell, she felt like she couldn’t even move, breathe, or look away from Fisk’s gaze, but Matt’s voice pulled her with an irresistible force, and she turned, almost hating him for it.

She could tell he was listening to her heartbeat, gauging her likely movements, judging whether she would submit - she no longer knew whether to Fisk or to him. The brief tension was ebbing out of him again, and now his voice was low, quiet, soothing.

“Breathe. Remember how to count through them: five counts in; five out…” as if he was just guiding her through a meditation at the end of a stressful day.

“Relax your arm. Try not to hold the knife so tight… Put the blade against my ribs. Keep it upright. … Breathe …”

His chest rose and fell under the knife with a slow metronomic consistency, and the warmth of his body radiated through his thin shirt, bathing her knuckles.

“Just focus on your breathing, Karen. Now draw your arm down …”

Her mind split in two, with one part following his words, nearly hypnotised by them, while another was watching in dread and refusing to believe what he was saying and what she was doing. Her arm moved, the blade slid, parting fabric and skin. Matt flinched and beads of blood welled, but the cut was paper-thin, and she sighed in relief.

Fisk interrupted, “I understand you need some practice, but you can do much better than that, Ms Page.”

Her sigh caught in her throat.

“It’s OK…” Matt licked his lips and swallowed, “You need to have more pressure though… Try to keep it steady… Now draw…”

The blade bit in, and though Karen lifted it almost instantly, it opened a three-inch gash across the ribs on his left-hand side. Scarlet flow immediately soaked his shirt in a rapidly spreading circle.

At the sight of his blood Karen’s sense of disassociation collapsed in on itself and the full impact slammed her hard enough to double her over, the knife tumbling to the floor and her hands clamping over her mouth. She somehow managed to control the need to retch, but the harsh keening sobs shook her from head to toe, and her thoughts short-circuited around the words “No, I won’t do this to you! I won’t! I won’t, I won’t…”

“Please… Karen … ” he whispered, “We don’t have a choice… If you don’t, he will anyway… and he will hurt you, and Foggy ... and … I can’t bear that.”

She heard a note that made her turn her head and look up at him from where she was now crouching at his feet. He looked desperate. Helpless. The way she remembered in those nightmarish months at the hospital, when he was losing every hope.

His plea continued to bind her, “… I can’t… I can’t take this... cope with this…again… without you. Please, Karen, help me.”

She remained crouched for endless minutes, simply sobbing. Her mind churned around the same dead-end logic, like an exhausted rat unable to comprehend the mechanics of a wheel’s motion. One outlandish scenario chased another through her head: what if she offered herself to Fisk and his men? What if she made another attempt to enrage him – maybe told him about Wesley? – would that make her his target enough for him to take the focus off Matt? Sure, she could probably push buttons sufficiently to get herself raped and beaten and killed, but she couldn’t believe in the efficacy of any of it in actually granting Matt a reprieve. If anything, it would make Fisk more bloodthirsty. That cocksucking sadistic scum had a hard-on for Matt’s suffering – however much he couched it in terms of pure revenge - and she could think of nothing that would prevent him from achieving his desire, whether by her hand or his own.

An incandescent rage rose from somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, engulfed her lungs, choked her, burned out her sobs and incinerated the thoughts running in useless loops. Pain was the only card on the table, so they had no choice, but she could do her damnedest to make sure that Fisk’s pleasure did not control it. Not this time. She had promised to stand between Matt and his nightmares, and she would continue to do so, trusting that her love could balance the weight of the knife - even as the nightmares came to life and tried to twist her into one of their own.

“I _promise_ you, I will make him pay.” Her words were more a hiss than a whisper, aimed more at herself than Matt, her fury masking their impotence. She reached for the knife, stood up and stepped close to Matt again, looking at his face, at the barely-concealed fragility there. Then she raised the blade back up to his bloodied ribs, and he leaned against the wall with a sigh.

She rested the palm of her other hand above his heart and listened as he brought his breathing back to the deep and slow pace. She hoped that by setting some sort of predictable rhythm, it would allow his body to adjust and defend itself against the worst of the pain. She told him she'd use his breaths as her measure; that she would warn. When she moved the blade again, it was as shallow and short a cut as she dared, and as her innocent fingers could manage, but he bled and shuddered, his muscles tensing, the one beating beneath her palm - speeding up. Tears squirmed through her determination, and she swallowed them past the blockage in her chest, fighting lightheadedness.

She didn’t know how long she remained motionless, trapped inside the silent battle for her sanity, but it was too long for Fisk’s patience.

“Keep going, Ms Page. I have warned you – you are to be relentless.”

Grey fog tunnelled what remained of her blurred vision, but she raised her head and saw Matt, somehow, finding an encouraging smile for her. So she forced her hand to lift the blade again, refocusing on his breathing, telegraphing her movements, folding chaos and torment into a predictable pattern as she opened another weeping line on his torso. Her free hand stroked his chest, his shoulders, his arms – in a soothing counterpoint to the sharp steel.

When his heartbeat steadied again, he nodded and she cut.

Karen’s whole being continued to resist, and her arm was betraying them both. She trembled and could not keep it steady. With the next one, the blade tilted as she drew it, sliced through his skin and flesh at an angle, and blood streamed down the metal surface towards her hand. Her dismay concealed the cry that escaped him, but she felt his body and breath arrest with tension and pain.

“Matt… Oh God… Matt… I am sorry… I am so sorry…” Her arm hung by her side, the knife staining her jeans an ugly purple.

He gasped the air back into his lungs.

“Don’t be. I am OK.”

Sweat beaded his forehead and temples, and he drew in another breath.

“Talk to me. I want to hear your voice. Tell me something… anything…but… keep going. I don’t want him to… interrupt you.”

She understood, but her mind refused to shift from the present, and she could think of nothing that would draw his attention away from it either.

“Anything,” he urged again and his lips curved up, “Be my Scheherazade.”

“You don’t know your fairy tales very well, Matt,” Karen whispered in response, “Scheherazade told stories to… to stay her own …” She shied away from the word, tried to block the thought.

A ghost of the grin was still present in his voice, “Fairy tales change with retelling … and God’s ways are mysterious.” Then he sighed and added, “Don’t stop …”

The unspoken word reverberated inside the part of her mind that would not be deceived, and Karen’s hand trembled worse than ever, the blade jittering, skimming over a patch of red-smeared skin. She dropped her arm again, closed her eyes, squeezing out the tears. She felt a touch on her hip and looked down to his fingers, just managing to reach her in a feeble caress.

“Miracles take time. Don’t give up. Please.” His eyes were directly on hers, “Tell me about Vermont … I can still barely imagine you as a kid in a quiet rural town …”

His fingers brushed the back of her hand holding the knife.

“And… don’t be afraid. I am not.”


	3. Masks of God

Every stroke of the knife’s edge against Matt’s skin slowly dragged him into oblivion. Karen could no longer escape that knowledge, no matter how much she called upon her childhood memories to distract them both.

At first, she did not think it was going to be possible to raise the past at all. It had simply ceased to exist beyond the present weight of cruelty, but Matt pushed her with the determination of questioning a witness, and images arose from beyond the sight of his blood. She latched onto these, bringing them to life in a halting broken voice with the unconscious skill of a storyteller.

She whispered to him of racing her brother up a beech tree on their way to school, and arriving in the classroom with her hair twined around stray twigs; of her mother’s absentminded doodling on the back of invoices and bank statements, and watching miraculous firebirds and centaurs and angels forming beneath the light strokes of her pencil; of the evening games in the packed out gym, swishing the ball for a winning 3-pointer at the runout of the clock; of the nights spent at a table in the diner, with her dolls spread before her, and – later – her schoolbooks, and later still – just staring in a stoned and exhausted stupor at the formica.

And, through it all, she continued to cut him.

Her hand still trembled; the knife was unsteady. She kept the lacerations short and to his ribs, knowing that the bone cage protected him from any serious damage she was terrified to inflict.

His head was now bowed down, but she knew he was still focusing on her voice from its slight tilt towards her. He lifted it if she stayed quiet for too long; incredible though it was - she was sure a ghost of a smile brushed his lips in response to some of the more idyllic sketches she drew for him with her words.

She knew he tried to remain silent and stifle every sound behind clenched teeth, but she wasn’t sure whether it was for her sake, or through his own iron resolve to not permit Fisk the satisfaction. Whatever the reason, she rattled with shame at knowing that it was making her task, however insignificantly, easier. Still, she heard the air merge with strangled groans as it left his lungs when his flesh parted. She felt the tremors coursing through him; saw his jaw tightening, lips thinning and cords standing out at his neck. Cold sweat bathed his face and concealed his tears, trickling down, glistening and burgeoning with pink when it reached his chest. His hands were clenched into fists, and his skin was pale beneath the crimson. His breathing was faster now, and he couldn’t regain its measured steadiness. It hitched with each inhalation, as his diaphragm expanded and stretched the split skin. His heart raced under her palm, and the front of his shirt and pants were soaked with blood. The shirt was in tatters, but it adhered to him with the viscous liquid, and squelched under Karen’s hand. Her arms were painted to the elbows. She no longer bothered to wipe her own tears - and sobs periodically choked her voice - but she swallowed them and returned to spinning her small-town American tales, rewarding them both for each dose of pain she dealt.

She stretched out the time between cuts as much as she could, giving him a chance to adjust to the agony, to indicate his readiness, before inflicting more on him. She wanted to return him at least an infinitesimal amount of control, but there was a coldly-logical fragment within her, born on the icy concrete of the warehouse, that refused to be buried under Vermont’s spectacular winter snowfalls and questioned whether this recovery time was a kindness. That part of her remained deaf to her desperate wish to keep him alive as long as possible; it was blind to the unconsciously spun fantasy that this was an abhorrent, but finite, sadistic ritual: that it would end, the injuries would heal, the terror dull by the passing of time. Her mental defenses were crumbling upon seeing him shaking and pale and drenched in his own blood, but she could not bring herself to escalate the torture in the hope of granting him a quicker death.

So she raised the knife to him again, and he swayed.

He tensed his arms, trying to find his balance against the handcuffs, but only ended up pulling himself away from the wall at his back and rocking forward. The knife clattered to the floor as Karen wrapped her arms around him, supporting his weight. He nearly jerked them both completely off-balance when the lacerations pressed up against her, but, somehow, she held on, locked her hands together behind his back, and awkwardly guided his fall to his knees. She, too, ended up kneeling in front of him, warm wetness soaking her clothes, contrasting with the clammy coldness of his forehead that rested against her shoulder. Her body vibrated with the trembling of his shock; her eardrums were assaulted by the slow cracking of thick palms meeting each other in perverse applause behind her; and that cruel, astute and clear aspect of her mind ruthlessly advised her to imprint every blood-smeared second in her memory as the last time she would ever hold Matt in her arms.

Something heavy rolled across the floor and thumped her leg with a crackle. She felt for it with one hand, found a water bottle, brought her hand back up to stroke Matt’s sweaty hair, whispering his name. He stirred, lifted his head, panting, and cried out with the movement. Karen twisted the cap off the bottle and brought it to his lips, carefully pouring a trickle of water into his mouth. He swallowed and let her pour more in, until he finally opened his eyes and leaned back against the wall, with a near-silent “no more”.

A large presence loomed over them, and Karen kept her eyes fixed on Matt, her hands squeezing and twisting around the bottle, equally glad and regretful that the knife was not in them. She was reasonably sure that Fisk was wearing one of his ‘special’ suits that Matt told her about, and that any attempt to plunge the blade into him would backfire on them both, but she wasn’t certain she would’ve been able to withstand the temptation. Especially so, when Fisk reached out and ran two grub-like fingers through a gash on Matt’s breastbone, wrenching a stuttering moan out of him, and then jabbed them next to the cord of muscle standing out on Matt’s neck.

“Bravo, Ms Page! As I suspected, you have risen admirably to the challenge. So much, that I find myself willing to excuse you from the rest of this ordeal. One of my men will take over. You will remain present as a witness, but once your Devil is dead, you will be released. I have promised you this and I keep my promises.”

“Neither you, nor your men, will lay a hand on him!” Karen was surprised at the strength in her voice, given the panic that scorched through her, and the fact that she had no recourse to back her words. What could she do if they decided to drag her away from Matt and continue the torture on their own? She still refused to look at Fisk, but she heard his response clearly.

He laughed.

“If you insist on finishing this, I will not allow myself to stand in your way,” he continued to chuckle as he ponderously crouched down by her, his face close to hers - playing the confidante again.

“You’ve been holding the Devil’s life in your hands for the past two years, ever since you engaged Frank Castle’s help and interrupted an act of justice. You claimed it as you spent days and nights by his bedside, protecting him, resurrecting him from the broken pieces I left. You are a truly remarkable woman to have succeeded where, as he said himself tonight, he would’ve failed on his own. So, I agree with you. It is only fitting that it should be you – not me, not my men, not some random thug on the street – who takes his life from him.”

Fisk tapped his fingers above Matt’s solar plexus.

“You will … insert…the knife here, and then you’ll be set free.”

He rose and stepped back out of Karen’s line of sight.

Not that she saw him. Her eyes were on Matt’s, and they burned, and she was too appalled and exhausted and numb to shed any more tears. The full realisation - that she played right into Fisk’s obscene snuff-film script with her stupid illusions of them having any control of the situation - sunk its weight inside of her and robbed her of any ability to move.

“I am sorry, Karen. It was my … price to pay... and I put it on you.” Matt had read her horror and, as per goddamn usual, tried to take all the weight of it onto himself, even though he barely had enough strength in him to speak.

Exasperation helped her shake off the stupor, and she pressed her hands around his face.

“I won’t let you to believe that. This wasn’t a choice. You said so yourself. So – don’t. Don’t you fall for his bullshit.”

She stood up and faced Fisk.

“I know you won’t touch Foggy. If you wanted to have your revenge on him too, he would’ve already been here. This is just about Matt and me. Punishing us. And… you did. You thought of the sickest revenge you could, and you carried it out. You have. Matt is… he is dying and… and I … I did that… to him… It’s done now. It’s done!”

Fisk nodded; then looked down on her.

“It is not done,” he shifted his eyes towards Matt, “You _have_ done enough to earn a reprieve for Mr Nelson - I will grant and guarantee you that - but not enough to guarantee _her_ life. Do you hear me, Mr Murdock? I suggest you argue fast.”

There was barely a pause before Matt spoke her name.

“No, Matt!”

“I am tired, Karen.”

She knelt down in front of him again; gently brushed away the sweat-plastered hair.

“Then rest. Just rest…”

“I can’t. I have to… make sure you are safe.”

“No! Fuck ‘safe’! There’s no such thing as ‘safe’, Matt! I wouldn’t have stayed here, in New York, if I wanted ‘safe’.”

He shook his head – just a tiny careful motion – “And you call _me_ the lawyer… You know … what I mean, Karen.”

“Do you actually expect me to do… this?” – tears started flowing down her face again; their supply inexhaustible after all – “Just to … save my life?”

Matt tilted his head slightly to the side and, unbelievably, grinned. “No, I don’t. You are … the bravest person I know … But I do expect you to do it… to give me peace. Because you love me. And, because I _am_ selfish … I will use that fact… to my advantage.” His blank gaze seemed to bore into hers, "He... wasn't... lying... when he... promised... "

She couldn’t bear to look at the expression of calm rationality that replaced the agony on his face, so she wrapped her arms under his shoulders, carefully hugging him, holding her own body away from his wounds. He didn’t let her keep the distance: he leaned into her, increasing the contact – tensing, flinching, trembling, but not drawing back.

She held him tighter and whispered into his ear through the tears.

“You don’t give up. You always get up. You told me that. That’s what Murdocks do.”

“Yeah…” he whispered back, “but … can’t win every bout… and… there are other ways… to win…”

“I might hate you, if you make me do this.”

“That would be very … very unfortunate... but you will be alive… to do so… and that’s all… that matters to me.”

The flames erupted yet again and she spat them out, “Your fucking God owes us a miracle! After all you’ve done in His Name! For Him! Where is He?”

“I don’t think… it works that way … but if I see Him… I will ask. Maybe… He can make it up… to you… somehow.”

His fading voice was still reasonable, still light, a smile only barely hidden in it. She couldn’t understand how, but - when she pulled back a little to look into his face again - she saw that the calm slipped off to be replaced by the deeply-etched lines of pain across the grey-tinged skin. His breathing was so short and ragged now, his chest barely moved, its fluttering indistinguishable from the uncontrollable shivering of his body.

She reached for the knife, squeezed the handle, glanced over her shoulder. The sharpshooter stood but four feet away and to her left, his hand negligently hanging by his side, clasping the weapon. Fisk was further back, by the couch, watching them with a fixed haughty intensity. The other two were out of the way, near the kitchen, their readiness indeterminate to her quickly flickering eyes.

“No.”

She turned her head back to Matt.

“You can’t. You… won’t be… fast enough.”

She stared at him as the handcuffs creaked and pressed into his wrists over his bowed weight; his face and the grimace of pain now hidden from her.

“You know…. What he … will do… what he … is capable … Don’t make me… go through… that…”

The last whisper she heard was a dead voice from within her own mind that dissolved the tendrils of hope and illusions into a bottomless oily darkness that permitted no grief and no hysteria – for those would’ve been sane and rational responses. She felt herself moulding against his soaked side, tucking her wet face against his neck, pressing her lips to his cold skin, hearing him mouth an ancient plea to his unjust God, her shaking hand scratching the steel tip against his sternum.

_“Our Father … _  
_Who art … in Heaven …_  
_ Hallowed be …Thy Name …_  
_ Thy Kingdom come …_  
_ Thy will… be done … on earth as… it is in Heaven…_  
_ Give us this day… our daily bread …_  
_ And forgive us... our trespasses …_  
_ As we forgive …_

He stopped, tensed, lifted his head.

“Get down…” - his breath warm against her ear -“… now.”

The window on the other side of the apartment rang and cracked with a bullet puncturing it.

Something struck Karen from behind, shoving her sideways against Matt, slamming him back into the wall. Her hand between them twisted and she felt the, now familiar, give of the parting flesh. Too late, she sprung her fingers open and felt the knife bounce off her knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from a quote by Melanie Tem. "Stories are masks of God. That's a story, too, of course. I made it up, in collaborations with Joseph Campbell and Scheherazade, Jesus and the Buddha and the Brother's Grimm. Stories show us how to bear the unbearable, approach the unapproachable, conceive the inconceiveable ..."


	4. The Lioness

The window shattered with the force of another bullet and Karen surged up, planting her palms on the wall, covering Matt with her body and squeezing her eyes shut. Shots from inside the apartment - quiet silenced pops – were answered by two more cracks from the outside. Then – silence, until she heard more tinkling of glass and heavy boots land on the floor, crunching around the room for several moments, and then slowly approaching them.

“Karen!”

Every muscle turned to water at the sound of that rough voice, and she slid back down, her hands still glued to the wall on either side of Matt’s head. He was slumped, unmoving, his chin on his chest and eyes closed; arms stretched out above him, wrenching at his shoulders. A keening wail ripped itself from under the pressure in her chest and tore through her ears. It should’ve been deafening to Matt, but he did not stir.

“Karen, come on, you with me?”

There was a warm weight on her shoulder and she was shaking. She only realised this when the weight disappeared and two heavy hands wrapped around her forearms, stilling their trembling, pulling her back from Matt. She moved like a doll, having no ability to help or hinder, her wide eyes registering nothing but Matt’s stillness.

An arm bisected her view.

“He’s alive.” Frank grabbed her hand, guided it to Matt’s neck, “Feel. Ain’t great, but he survived worse.”

He paused.

“Any of that blood yours?”

She managed to shake her head, barely breathing, her whole being focused on the quick syncopated little thumps against her fingertips.

Castle then pulled a knife from his belt - its blade bouncing shards of reflected downlights, where they weren’t swallowed by a smear of flaking red near the handle. Karen snapped her head towards it, reflexes kicking in as she tried to put herself between him and Matt. He stopped, looked at her, then slowly reached over with his free hand and grasped the bottom of the soaked rags covering Matt’s chest.

“Need to get this off him, see how bad it is, yeah?”

She blinked, nodded and sat back. The remains of the fabric parted, revealing Matt’s scarlet-painted torso, striped with thick black strokes.

Karen pressed her fist into her mouth, with the evidence of the torture she inflicted splayed in front of her eyes, but Frank did not pause, did not look at her in horror or condemnation: he simply moved his fingers between the lacerations, examined Matt’s sides, paid close attention to the sluggishly bleeding gouge just below the juncture where his ribs met.

His voice was completely calm, “Gotta get the rest of that bleedin’ stopped. Put him on saline. Get him warm. Can’t call the EMTs – don’t know who is listenin’ the channels. Last I checked, you had half a fuckin’ hospital stashed away. So, move, Karen. This ain’t your first rodeo.”

It took a couple more seconds for the voice to penetrate, but when it did, she dropped her hand from her mouth to brace against the floor, and, instead, found it pushing against a jeans-clad leg. The dead marksman was sprawled behind her, face down, the back of his head a caved-in bowl of gelatinous stew pierced with shards of bone. She cast her eyes around the rest of the open space, spotting two more bodies near the kitchen, and one– a large one – next to the couch. A sense of unreality washed over her, and she wondered whether one of the bullets she heard actually struck her, and this was all a fantasy concocted by her dying mind. She found that she didn’t care.

She stuck her hands beneath the corpse next to her, feeling within his pockets - trying to ignore the soft pliant flesh she encountered on the other side of the cloth - until her fingers touched the small keys, and she jerked them out with disgust. She tossed them to Frank, then pushed herself up and ran first to her purse, discarded on the coffee table - avoiding looking at the body - and on to the locked storage space under the staircase.

Frank’s movements were practiced and steady. There was no gentleness in them – he wasn’t built for that - but aiming a sniper rifle, or inserting a needle into a vein, both required a level of precision that Castle excelled at. He hooked the saline bag onto the open handcuff still attached to the firehose bracket and moved aside to let Karen soak up the blood with gauze, cover the worst cuts with dressings, tuck a quilt around Matt.

Frank had that peculiar, but achingly-familiar, expression of listening to something only he could hear. He muttered, “Roger that”, and turned back to Karen’s bent form.

“That’ll keep him alive. Blood loss’s his problem. Shock too. Everything else looks superficial. He’d be dead already if it weren’t. You did good.”

“What?” His gruff praise flashed back to Fisk’s oily sadism, and she could only stare at him.

Castle put his fingers back onto Matt’s pulse.

“Did what you had to.”

Karen looked at Matt’s bloodless face, blue-tinged lips; raised her fingers to his cheek and was reminded that her hands were covered with a layer of maroon grime. His blood pulled at the skin of her arms as it dried. Her shirt was cold and heavy; her hair hung over her face matted and brown. Her hand dropped.

“I nearly killed him. I … I thought I had. I listened to… _Fisk_ and did as he _told_ me to,” the self-loathing dripped through her voice.

“Fuck, Karen! Gimme a break! What choice did you think you had? I heard all that went down,” Frank tapped at the comms in his ear, “Once Red called the play, you followed. He needed time; you gave it to him. Kept him alive, kept Fisk off him.”

She shook her head, “He gave up …because of me… And I was so … so _brainwashed _I thought that was the only choice we had!” Karen felt hysteria building behind her hyperventilation.

Frank’s voice was matter-of-fact, “Maybe he figured I wasn’t coming, so he made the next best call. Protected you.”

He rose to his feet.

“You wanna twist yourself into knots feelin’ guilty, wait till the Catholic boy here wakes. That’s his hobby. Right now, we ain’t got time for this bullshit. Cops won’t come, but that don’t mean they ain’t been called. They have, but dispatch ain’t letting it through. You get why?”

She realised he was trying to divert her from spiraling down, and followed his words as best she could. It took her a moment to get past the dirty cotton wool that her thoughts were wrapped in, but…

“… Fisk paid off whoever is working dispatch...?”

“Yeah. We call EMTs, ain’t no guarantees either. You got someone in the PD you can trust?”

“Yes, Mahoney… ”

“Him? He figure out who Red is yet?”

“… No… I don’t think so …“

Frank looked around the room. “You got Red’s spare masks and clubs lyin’ all over here, or can you get his shit together and out before this place gets turned upside down?”

She nodded, still struggling to shift her brain into a practical mode.

“Alright. Get packing. Then make the call.”

Karen latched onto these simple directives as guide ropes in the emotional maelstrom, and pushed herself back up onto her feet. She picked up Daredevil’s suit and mask from where it was crumpled on the floor, stuffed it into a gym bag, then grabbed the rest of his equipment out of the chest in the storage and threw in some of the more questionably-acquired medical supplies. She heard a soft pain-filled groan, and immediately turned back, but Frank’s eyes were not on Matt – they were looking at something behind her – and he was pulling out his gun with a curse. She turned again and saw no-one. And then she spotted movement of a pale hand in a pool of neon-blue light by the couch.

Castle was next to her, pushing past her, and her hand flashed out and dug her fingers into his bicep. He twisted towards her with an impatient hiss, his eyes lost in the narrowed dark pits, arm raised to wrench itself out of her grasp or simply throw her aside - but she didn’t give a shit. The blue hand was now scrabbling around, searching the floor. She took a step forward for a better angle to see; her foot came down on a hard sliver of metal and her thoughts cleared.

She let go of Frank, bent down to grab the blood-encrusted handle and walked to Fisk. One of his eyes was open and looking at the ceiling, the other was gone in an eruption of congealed blood, brain tissue and shards of bone that had flowed down his face and gathered in the folds of his thick neck. His hand stilled; the eye rolled towards her.

Karen stared down at him, wondering whether he could even see her, let alone recognise her, but he resolved her dilemma. His voice was quiet, slurred, but lost none of its arrogance.

“It appears that Mr Murdock’s deal with Satan continues to pay dividends. It matters little. My mind is at peace, which is more than I can say for you. How did it feel to have his life flow out over your hands?”

She crouched down by him, her mind filled with the unambiguous lucidity of hatred soon-to-be appeased.

“Matt is alive.”

She waited for the remains of his face to twist with disappointment or rage. He simply looked at her.

“Even if he is for now, his life will remain short. Men like him do not get to enjoy happy retirement from their deeds, and I include Mr Castle in this observation. I suspect you won’t either, given what you learned today – how much power you have and how far it can be twisted, with or against your will. How _dangerous_ you can be to your Devil. Can you live with that knowledge? Can you live with what you’ve done? Remain by his side?”

Karen knew he was baiting her, but the shame that was coiled under the fury could not deny his words. Yet her hand did not shake as she began to unbutton his protective suit jacket. His eye flicked down and he smiled.

“Ah, perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you recognised within yourself the capacity – the talent – for violence. Did the thrill and the responsibility of holding another’s life on the tip of your knife turn you on, Ms Page? Mr Murdock knows this harrowing pleasure well, even if it drives him to do penance on Sundays…Perhaps, deep down in the darkness of your soul, you enjoyed his pain…”

Karen’s fingers continued their work. A clamor rose in her brain, deafening her to all self-reflection from her conscience, and demanded Fisk to hurt as Matt had; for his face to twist in horror that even impending death could not match.

She tilted her head to the side, pitched her voice to a benign softness.

“Do you think this will make me a killer? Your friend James Wesley may have given you good advice there. Do you remember Wesley? Or was he just another one of your pawns, despite his pathetic devotion?”

She finally got the response she was looking for: the smugness and amusement left his ruined face. Her hand continued unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“Wesley found out that Ben and I visited your mother. Yes, I was there, too. Did you know that? She was so adamant that it wasn’t your fault that you killed your father. But the more she remembered - the clearer it was in her face. She always knew you were a monster. Whatever your father was, she knew you were so much worse than him. That knowledge - that _stress_ – could it be that’s what broke her mind? Made her lose touch with reality? Did you think about that? Why would she _want_ to be aware, knowing _what_ you were!”

Fisk continued to silently stare at her, and it fed the flame.

“Of course, Wesley didn’t tell you any of this because he didn’t have the time. See, Wesley drugged me, kidnapped me and then threatened that he would kill Matt and Foggy, if I didn’t stop digging into your past; if I didn’t make everyone believe that you were… a benefactor. I put seven bullets into his chest, with his own gun.”

Karen flicked away the folds of the waistcoat, took the bloodied knife and firmly placed the point in the center of his huge torso.

“So, I’ve already taken a life once to protect Matt. I can do it again. And you are right – I might even enjoy it.”

She leaned forward over Fisk, digging her narrow-eyed rage into his shocked gaze as she dug the point into his flesh, twisting - her hand on the handle rock-steady as his blood welled out into a slowly expanding puddle.

“Especially since I’ve now had so much _practice_ with this knife.”

Fisk breathed out, “Your affections are truly misplaced, Ms Page. You belong with the Punisher. Does _Matt_ realise this?”

Karen’s hand quivered -just a tiny movement - and she clamped down on it, gritting her teeth, steadying it. He smiled at her again as she firmed up, bringing her weight to bear.

Fisk’s remaining eye exploded in a geyser of blood and clear fluid, freezing the smile on his face.

Karen started, stared, then spun around - rising - to face Frank’s impassive expression.

“Wanted him to get the last word in, did you?” he asked as he lowered the gun.

All the boiling savagery surged out of her. She flung her left hand and struck him with every ounce of strength her arm possessed. He turned his head with her blow, rocking slightly to the side, then calmly looked back at her, his cheek reddening.

“You wanna protect Red? You gotta keep yourself sane for the both of you. Pulling him through when shit falls apart – that’s your job. Not this,” he flicked the gun’s muzzle at the corpse, “that’s mine, and you wouldn’t enjoy it.”

He turned, went to her purse, pulled the phone out and tossed it to her.

“Call Mahoney. Convince him to keep quiet till he figures how to work this. Tell him you’ll hand yourself in at the Metro-General, if he wants. I fuckin’ hope you’re right ‘bout him.”

His words needled at her hard enough for her to pay attention, and she frowned, “Hand myself in?”

“You are covered in Red’s blood. Yours are the only prints on that knife.” – She looked down at the blade still in her hand – “Play it straight; worst comes to worst - Micro’s recording will clear you.”

Fisk’s end-game suddenly made sense to Karen. It wasn’t just Matt’s agonising death and her insanity he was aiming at. If it weren’t for Micro’s listening devices that were left online in the apartment …

“Murder in the first…” she whispered, feeling sick again, “He probably has someone all ready to go in the DA’s office, as well as the NYPD.”

She placed the knife carefully on the coffee table, walked back over to Matt’s side, knelt by him, reassured herself with her fingers on his wrist, and saw his eyelids flicker.

“Matt… Matt, wake up... please wake up...” She squeezed his hand, caressed it with both of hers, and he groaned in response, his face gathering into a grimace. “Matt, do you hear me? You will be OK, but we have to get you to the hospital. I know you don’t want to, but there’s too much… You lost too much…" she swiped one hand across her eyes, "... and he is dead, Matt. He is dead, and he won’t ever get to you again …”

She leaned forward, wanting to kiss him, hold him, being afraid to hurt him more, to take the space he needed to breathe. The last vestiges of her resilience were shattering, and Karen knew she could not afford to fall apart – not yet, not while his wounds were open and weeping – but all she could do now was huddle over him and whisper, “I am so sorry…”

“Karen…” his eyes remained closed, his breathing – shallow, his voice full of pain and certainty, “I told you… there’s nothing you could ever do to me… that I would not accept.”

The pressure of her hand was returned, “I don’t want to die, but… there is always a chance… with what I do… what I _have_ to do. I thought… I made peace with that... but when Fisk took me, back then … I was alone… I was going to die alone. I was terrified… Tonight – I wasn’t. You were here. Are here. Your arms around me…” – he opened his eyes and cracked a smile – “can’t think of a better way to go… if I had to. Told you … I was being selfish.”

She couldn’t help but grin back through the tears, “Yes, Matt, you were. If I have any claim on your life at all, then you aren’t fucking _allowed_ to die.”

Frank shifted behind her.

“Are we gettin’ your ass to the hospital, or am I gonna have to stitch you up right here, Red? Gotta tell you, pretty needlework ain’t ever been my strong suit.”

Matt huffed out a breath of laughter, “You know I hate hospitals… but I am not ending up … looking any more like… Frankenstein’s monster ....”

“Well, Amen to that!” Frank crouched down on his other side and looked at Karen, “Let’s get him the fuck outta here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the whole point of writing this fic was for me to give Karen an opportunity at dealing revenge for Matt's suffering. But Frank, in his bullheaded way, just wouldn't fucking budge. "Nope. She ain't goin' down that hole. Not on my watch," he said. Arguing with him is like arguing with a brick wall that's bristling with weapons. So - there you have it.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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